


Breathe Easy

by LovelyLessie



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Modern Era, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 09:09:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2807165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyLessie/pseuds/LovelyLessie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feuilly takes some time between his long shifts to relax, and be looked after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe Easy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FeathersMcStrange](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeathersMcStrange/gifts).



When Feuilly gets home, there's a motorcycle parked in front of the shop, and the lights are on in his windows upstairs.

Mâchoires greets him at the door, sitting just inside and waiting with her tongue hanging out, only to leap up when he comes in and bound around his feet as he kicks off his boots. “Hi, baby,” he says, crouching down to scratch her ears, despite the complaints of his aching muscles when he does. She flops over on her back, tail thumping on the floor, and he can't help grinning as he rubs her belly. Heavy footsteps come running down the hall, and he lifts his head to see Bahorel beaming at him.

“Come here, you,” she says, and he straightens so she can pull him into her arms, ruffling his curls with one hand.

“Hey,” he says, leaning against her, and sighs into her shoulder as he starts to relax.

“How long are you home for?” she asks, more quietly, slipping one hand under his arm to hold him up.

“Mm.” He closes his eyes. “I've got a shift at two. Packing place.”

“That's not so bad.” She shifts around and hoists him off the floor with a grunt, giving him her gentlest smile. “Hell, that's enough time to eat, sleep, _and_ shower. Soup's already on the stove.”

“You're the best,” he says, and laughs as she deposits him on the couch. Even soup from the tin is more than he can usually manage after a full day's work, and the smell of it from the kitchen is making his mouth water.

“Now, don't you move,” Bahorel warns him with a fierce look, and whistles through the gap in her teeth for Mâchoires, who comes running at once. “You want her on your lap?”

“Sure,” he agrees, putting his feet up on the arm of the couch, and braces himself for the dog to jump up on his stomach, panting eagerly. He closes his eyes as Bahorel ducks into the kitchen to get the soup, and it's mostly the thought of food that keeps him from drifting off. Instead he listens to the sound of dishes clattering, and water running, and the creak of the cupboard doors. Mâchoires wriggles up onto his chest so she can lick his chin, and he wrinkles his nose, smiling, stroking her ears with both hands.

This is when his flat feels like home, he thinks sleepily.

Not that he doesn't like it otherwise – a little place to call his, right above the shop that's his as well, where he can always come back to rest his head between his long and difficult shifts – but it's not the same coming home in the dark to a silent apartment as when he arrives to find his best friend and her dog waiting for him to get back.

“Your soup,” Bahorel says, and he opens his eyes to see her standing over him, one hand holding the bowl, the other outstretched to help him sit up. He picks up Mâchoires and deposits her across his thighs instead so he can push himself upright and accept the soup.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, lifting the bowl to his lips to sip the broth.

Rather than sit down beside him Bahorel climbs over the back of the couch to stand behind him and rest both hands on his shoulders. “Don't mention it,” she says, and laughs heartily.

He leans back against her hands as she rubs the back of his neck, working out tension little by little while he eats. “My God,” he says after a long few moments of warm silence. “Could I ever ask for more than this?”

“Hmm,” she sighs, leaning in to rest their chin on his head, still kneading his shoulders with the heels of her broad hands. “King-sized bed wouldn't hurt.”

Feuilly laughs and shakes his head, lifting his bowl again to drain the rest of the broth before he scoops up the last bites of chicken and carrots from the bottom. “Maybe sometime.”

She moves her hands and he tips his head back to see her smiling fondly down at him, eyes alight and a soft smile spread all the way across her face. “Otherwise, though,” she adds, “I think we've both got it pretty good.” She ruffles his hair with one hand and plants a kiss on his forehead before taking the bowl out of his hands and heading back towards the kitchen. “Go shower, _chéri_. I'll wash up.”

He nods and stretches, nudging Mâchoires gently off his lap so he can stand up. “You sure you don't need any help?” he asks, joining Bahorel in the kitchen.

“'Course not,” she tells him, trying to wave him away. “Take care of yourself, I've got it.”

“Alright,” he agrees, and slips an arm around her waist. “Love you.”

She flicks the dishtowel playfully at him to shoo him off. “Love you more,” she says, grinning. “Now _go!_ ”

Laughing, he ducks into the bathroom and pulls off his worn-out work clothes so he can get into the shower and clean himself up. The water's lukewarm already when he turns it on, and he spends a few minutes once it heats up just letting it wash over him, continuing Bahorel's work at soothing his tense and weary muscles.

When he gets out and slips into the bedroom to put on pajamas, he finds Bahorel sprawled across his bed with Mâchoires laying on her chest. “Hey,” he says, tossing his clothes and his towel on the floor to grab shorts and a t-shirt.

“Feel better?” she asks, half lifting her head to look at him.

“Yeah,” he says, and climbs up into bed beside them. “You gonna stay over?”

“What,” she asks, feigning wounded, “did you think I was going to just leave now?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Of course not,” he says, “but I wanted to be sure before I lay all over both of you.”

She roars with laughter as he drapes himself across her chest and curls up against her side, one hand on her shoulder and the other resting on Mâchoires' head. “Come here, you,” she says when she's caught her breath, and pulls him up close with both arms as their breathing settles into steady rhythm. “Wouldn't need to lay on top of me, would you, if you had a bed damn big enough for both of us.”

“Shut up,” he says, but he can't help smiling.

“Of course,” she adds, “in the meantime, I think this will do just fine.”

“Mmm,” he sighs happily, and closes his eyes as he listens to the sound of her heart against his ear. “Bahorel?”

“Yeah?”

He grins, his face pressed to her chest. “Love you the most,” he murmurs, and he's asleep before she can reply.

**Author's Note:**

> not r63, she's trans in this 'verse.


End file.
